Seussian Rhyme Crime
by gotgoats
Summary: I was asked to tell the tale, not of a man who ate a whale, but rather, instead, a naughty old crime, told in the verse of Seussian rhyme.  It is ok to not enjoy, but mean words you need not employ.


And now for all reading, I must disclaim,

For I own naught of NCIS fame.

Even of humor, I own very little,

For I write a bit, only a jot and a tittle.

To my beta I owe quite a lot

For my spelling and grammar my backside she's got.

Seuss is long gone, which is a bummer,

For I love to read his books in the Summer.

Even as I use his prose,

It is only to his memory a rose.

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I was asked to tell a tale,

Not of a man who ate a whale,

But rather, instead, a naughty old crime,

Told in the verse of true Seussian rhyme.

And so it begins, our villainous tale,

Of a man most vile, Mr. Barnaby Snail.

Mr. Snail worked many long hours

In a large bank, called the Cash Flowers.

All day long, customers came to his stall,

And he gladly helped them. Yes, he helped them all.

Then in the evening, away he would put

His ledgers and cash drawer with bad thoughts afoot.

His house was paid off, his children in college

With all sorts of pursuits and hopes of great knowledge.

His wife liked to shop every day at the mall

The things she brought home? They were not small.

Shoes and jewelry and trinkets to wear,

And all more than their budget could bear.

A mortgage would open their house for pillage

That house that he loved right there in the village.

And now comes a twist to our little tale,

A phone call came in for our Mr. Snail.

His manager noticed him doing so fine,

That he was now moved to the government line.

And after a year, when his debt had built,

He pondered the rich folk and all of their ilk.

He looked at the funds of the Navy so deep,

And thought that his wife could spend that in her sleep.

And so it was, that a crime came to be

Stuck in the thoughts of our Barn-a-by.

He knew his acts would have to be quick

And without a trace, so no charges would stick.

He thought and he thought, and when it came to it,

He wanted someone else to be there to do it.

And so with held breath and a nice clean suit,

He spoke with his friend, one Mr. Phruit.

Poor Mr. Phruit was the gullible sort,

And he believed Mr. Snail's report.

"Oh, no! Mr. Snail, I truly cannot!

For if I were caught, I'd surely be shot!"

He knew that to him, the vault was off-limits,

But the boss needed to know the inked pages within it.

"No you would not!" Our villain did smile.

"For I have the skin of a croc-o-dile.

They are bullet proof, as you know,

And so now let us get on with the show!"

So our Mr. Phruit, now armed with a key

Did go in to the bank of our Barn-a-by.

He went to a box a ways in the back,

And reached up high, clear up on the rack.

For in that box was the cash

That comprised Mr. Snail's stash.

He was not to take that box from the vault

Little did he know his prints would lay fault.

He knew that to him, the vault was off-limits,

But the boss needed to know the inked pages within it.

As our poor Phruit counted and played,

By his "friend" Snail a big trap was laid.

Mr. Phruit worked at the bank

And in his mop bucket, his memories sank.

He had opened his savings with only a penny

And on payday, found he could add only a little, if any.

He was going to school in recourse,

Learning computers and programming of course.

And so with the knowledge of his young mark's aim,

Snail emptied the accounts of one Admiral McGlain.

Into the savings pot of young Phruit

Poured the McGlain's well gotten loot.

The next to be siphoned were Jackson and Harvey,

And then came the mother-in-law of Judge Joseph Marley.

The next in the line was the Sergeant McGroot.

He rarely smiled, so for Snail, this was a hoot.

Poor Mr. Phruit had done his work,

And at his task, he did not shirk.

He'd touched and he'd moved many boxes with ease,

So foolish was he, for Snail to believe.

He took not a thing, not knowing the deed

Which would make his arrest a thing of great need.

Our poor Mr. Phruit had been made to think

That he was to count all the pages with ink.

And so he'd opened many a box with his key,

Ending so nicely with the case of McGee.

Inside that box were thousands of pages!

He thought with a huff, "I need higher wages."

He counted and counted the pages galore,

He was only half done, when to his horror,

An alarm did sound oh, so loud in his ear,

And his partner did shout "let's get out of here!"

A call came in to one Jethro Gibbs,

For the front seat his team did call dibs.

To the crime scene they did race

For the evidence time would not erase.

"There is no body, no one was killed,

However, one of the boxes is no longer filled.

On the floor the one remains empty

Showing how the thief meant mischief aplenty."

"Boss, take a look! This is my book!

In it is every foul plot I could cook!

All of the pages are out of order,

And what is this stuff? Did it come from his larder?"

"It looks like his hands were dirty, Elflord.

By the looks, it was chicken that he could afford.

Here it all is, all covered with grease,

Spread to and fro any way he did please."

Tony did laugh as he packed the pages.

"I guess he ate his lunch in stages

He was not the cleverest thief,

With this much evidence, we can cause him much grief."

"Stop talking already and get it to Abby,

So she can break it all down in her labby.

Tony, take pictures, and Ziva, statements you'll hear.

McGee, you go home. You're too involved here."

Working as they were a man short

The remaining three worked like sailors coming to port.

With haste they bagged and tagged,

All the while poor Timmy's morale sagged.

Once Abby had the evidence

She worked for proof of consequence.

Major Mass Spec did hum and fuss

As Abby the fingerprint database did muss.

Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs!

I have found the culprit! I did!

But it is not he who performed the deed,

For he is not one all filled with greed.

If you look at this computer so shiny,

You will find before its camera a man on his hiney.

He did not know he was on a show,

For he does not hurry, he is slow.

This is the one, the one I say!

The one who got the cash away!

The man inside did play a fool,

For his friend he was a tool."

"Are you sure? He has education."

"He does not." Abby was sure in her negation.

"He goes to school, that is no fabrication,

But his learning was an exaggeration."

And so it was that Barnaby Snail

Found his plot was doomed to fail.

His silly friend Mr. Phruit

Gladly gave back all of the loot.

Snail went to prison, which is not

A place anyone would wish to rot.

He lived each day without glee,

Filled with remorse for his envy.

Young Mr. Phruit got his diploma

And moved far away to Oklahoma.

Far away from banks he did stay

With keyboards and letters all day he did play.

The moral of our story is plain

There is no joy in ill-gotten gain.

For if you find that you must steal,

NCIS will hunt you with zeal.


End file.
